


Things to Do When You're Not Dead

by misura



Category: Johannes Cabal - Jonathan L. Howard
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 23:29:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/142884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misura/pseuds/misura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Horst, in the dark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things to Do When You're Not Dead

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vnutrenni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vnutrenni/gifts).



Horst Cabal had a thought on the very first day of the rest of his - well, not 'life', obviously, and not 'death', really, but rather some in-between state, neither the one nor the other. Johannes would doubtlessly have been able to provide him with the scientifically correct term (Horst mused with something akin to fondness, before he could stop himself) - Horst, alas, had never taken enough of an interest in this particular branch of medicine.

The thought he was having was this:

 _'Maybe Johannes hates me.'_

It was not a thought Horst found particularly pleasant; he liked to believe that, as a rule, he got along quite well with people, unless they were unpleasant people with whom he did not want to get along.

Johannes might be a little strange sometimes - the word 'eccentric' came to mind as a kinder alternative to 'obsessed' or even 'unhinged'. Horst did not deny Johannes had his flaws and faults and quirks, certainly, but then, who didn't? Horst liked to have hot chocolate with a lot of marshmallows sometimes, and Johannes liked to read thick, not rarely hand written books about things to do with death. Nobody was perfect.

On the other hand, in some aspects, Johannes certainly _strove_ to be. Horst remembered the outburst, the grumbling and dark mutterings brought on by the discovery that the powder Johannes had special-ordered from some obscure shop or another had only been exposed to so-called 'black light' for a period of two-and-a-half days, rather than the promised three.

Horst glowered at the firmly barred door. He was able to see it, now that he was no longer quite alive, but he remained unable to actually open it. Only Johannes would be able to do that, given that the cemetery was hardly any kind of touristic hot spot, and given that only Johannes knew Horst was here.

Well. It appeared there wasn't much else to do but sit down and wait and try not to let the darkness get to him too much. Horst had never been afraid of the dark before, and now seemed a rather silly time to start, but clearly, he would have to beware of it having an effect on his outlook.

 

When the first year ended, Horst thought he could have probably compiled a list of A Thousand and One Bad Things That Could Happen to My Brother, as well as a list of A Hundred and Two Good Things That Could Happen to My Brother. There would, he kept telling himself the first month, be a _reason_ for Johannes not yet having coming back to get him out.

In the second month, he started telling himself there might be two reasons. In the third month, three.

By the time the eleventh month rolled about, he told himself that perhaps Johannes had broken his leg while coming across the scene of a crime. The police would have taken him to the hospital, perhaps unconscious, on suspicion of being involved in the crime. Johannes, being Johannes, would annoy them for no purpose. They would lock him up in a cell for a while to 'soften him up' - an undertaking Horst could have told them would be fruitless.

After a while, they'd let him go, at which point Johannes would barely escape a dropping piano that belonged to a charming young woman who happened to have a sister who was very much interested in necronthology or necrosty or necrologics or whatever it was called. Johannes, head over heels in love, would turn into the idiot Horst had only ever seen him turn into once, and it would only be after he and the young lady had gotten married and were expecting a baby that Johannes would remember Horst, prompted by his bride asking him about male relatives after whom they might name the baby.

Johannes would be deeply apologetic, of course. He might even be a little bit sheepish.

Horst could imagine the scene vividly - right up to the point where Johannes would tell him to look at things 'from the bright side' (using different words, obviously).

 

The second year started, and Horst realized he'd grown rather tired of thinking about Johannes. He'd spent a month composing 'welcome back (I thought you'd never come!)' speeches, ranging from the frivolous ('did you know my own blood tastes like Brussel sprouts now except worse?') to the grateful ('thank you, thank you, thank you') to the wrathful ('you're going to pay for my new clothes. and a decent coffin. and a visit to the barber. and a whole lot more').

Being tied to one location somewhat limited his potential field of pursuits, but Horst had always prided himself on being creative, and he was a firm believer in the credo that only boring people ever needed to get bored. Horst might be somewhat dead and his clothes might look a bit like they'd been in fashion _last year_ rather than today - that didn't mean he was boring.

The crypt did not have much to offer by way of entertainment for the discerning gentleman of good taste, or even the undiscerning ordinary bloke of good taste, alas. Horst had worked in a pet shop for a brief spell; if there'd been rats, he thought something could have been arranged, even if it would be tough going, without any food to bribe them.

As it was, the spiders would have to do.

 

The problem with the spiders, Horst discovered during the third year, having devoted himself to studying their behavior for the better part of the second, was that even to his heightened senses, they were incredibly hard to tell apart.

Any attempt to mark them in some way met with failure; Horst's resources simply weren't up to the task, limited as they were. It was a pity.

Exploring the crypt was no longer a matter of exploring as it was a matter of walking around, seeing the same old sights. He'd monologued on the subject of peas to the audience of Beatrice, although his knowledge on the subject was mostly limited to his own experiences, gathered in several mess halls and over the course of one memorable family dinner, and, naturally, the faerietale about the princess who was entirely too sensitive when it came to her bedding.

His monologue to Felix had been even shorter. Horst's mental image of a druid consisted of little else than a bearded man wearing something that closely resembled a long, white dress, possibly accompanied by a long, red cape, carrying a sickle which was used to harvest all kinds of herbs and plants, most notably mistletoe.

Johannes had scoffed on druidism as superstitious, useless nonsense, and while Horst was not one to disrespect a man's desire to wear clothing that might be described as feminine (to each his own), he had to confess the menhirs had never quite made sense to him.

"No offense, of course."

Felix remained agreeably silent, and Horst shrugged.

 

In the fourth year, he thought he might have gone a little bit mad, looking back with the relative clarity of hindsight. He also stopped keeping track of the time that had passed since the accident, which might have been a rather sane thing to do, really.


End file.
